We chose a secluded beach for Sally’s immolation: a picturesque spot beneath a crab apple tree where a circle of charred rocks formed a pre-used firepit. Malik arranged twigs, dead wood, dry grass and bunched-up newspaper into a funeral pyre. I placed Sally next to the firepit. “Who wants to go first?” I asked. The sun was setting across the water, making Sally’s electric-blue contours shimmer. She was two feet tall: a sky-blue bong made of spun glass flecked with gold and red, like sparks. Her bowl and bowl-stem were neon orange.

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